He came from his palace grand;
He came to my cottage door;
His words were few, but his look
Will linger for evermore,
The look in his sad, dark eyes,
More tender than words could be
But I was nothing to him,
And he was the world to me
There in her garden she stands,
All dressed in fine satin and lace,
Lady Mary, so cold and so strange;
In his heart she could find no place
He knew I would be his bride,
With a kiss for a lifetime fee
But I was nothing to him,
And he was the world to me
Now in his palace grand,
On a flower-strewn bed he lies
His beautiful lids are closed
On his sad, dark, beautiful eyes
And among the mourners who mourn,
Why should I a mourner be?
For I was nothing to him,
And he was the world to me
For I was nothing to him,
And he was the world to me